


bittersweet symphony

by GryfoTheGreat



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Depression, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:15:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GryfoTheGreat/pseuds/GryfoTheGreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe they're bad for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bittersweet symphony

**Author's Note:**

> CloTi? Romantic? Hell naw.
> 
> Seriously, most fics portray Cloud as 'ooh Tifa has boobies whee! Imma buy her flowers!' but the kid had trouble making friends with ZACK. Cloud will never understand the concept of Valentine's Day. He'll just get Yuffie to do it for him.

It’s late when gets back to Seventh Heaven. Later than late, really. The ramshackle streets of Edge are as still as a morgue.

This isn’t uncommon for the owner and sole employee of Strife Delivery Service. He has a tendency to underestimate the amount of time needed to deliver something. He always gets his cargo delivered on time, sure; it’s getting back that’s difficult.

Cloud supposes that maybe his body is so used to battle that even when all he’s doing is cruising along an abandoned road, he stays primed and ready, mind unable to relax. The result is that he exterminates monsters much too far away to do a thing, or stares at a peculiarly shaped rock for half an hour. Stupid things like that.

He honestly doesn’t know.

Usually, when he gets back late, Marlene and Denzel are fast asleep, dreaming of...hell, he doesn’t know. Laser-eyed unicorns? Killer ice creams? He still doesn’t quite understand either of them. Tifa is asleep as well, though she has a tendency to fall asleep in the armchair downstairs.

 (waiting for him, he suspects, but he never really wants to ask, doesn’t want to shatter the illusion)

So he does the dutiful thing and picks her up, bridal style, and dumps her awkwardly into her narrow bed and takes her shoes off her feet, but nothing else. Then he goes to bed, spends half the night sleeping and the other half dreading, and when he gets up in the morning Tifa chastises him for getting back late and he promises to get back earlier in the future and neither of them mention her still bare feet.

It goes on endlessly.

This night is different.

He stumps into the bar and Tifa is perched on a bar stool, cheek cradled in her hand. Her claret eyes are a dull brown, unseeing. She doesn’t stir when he sits beside her. The top of the chair’s back digs into him uncomfortably.

“It’s late.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“You should go to bed.”

Her lips press together slightly, and he notices that the edges of the fragile skin of her lips are torn and chapped. He also notices the dark smudges beneath her eyes, bags big enough to carry a week’s shopping.

“Was it busy?”

She nods. “End of year always is.”

_He should know this, but he doesn’t._

Tifa is unwilling to break the silence that seethes between them, viscous and toxic, so he breaks it.

“It’s cold.”

She doesn’t say a word.

“Are Marl-“

“They’ve got the electric blankets on.”

 _The ones from our beds,_ he hears behind her words.

He has run out of words.

Maybe this is what it was like trying to talk to him, back then. Stilted. Awkward.

_painful._

“Look, Tifa, I...”

He pauses and starts at the ceiling. It needs to be painted; the white is peeling off in dandruff like flakes in the southwest corner. He continues his aborted sentence.

“Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

“That’s just it.”

Her hand comes away from her cheek and fists itself in the dark material of her shorts.

“You do so much. Too much. I shouldn’t be angry with you, but...”

Her fingers yank at each other, twisting the heavy wolf’s head around her ring finger.

“You have every right to be angry at me,” Cloud says quietly, “and I will never blame you for that.”

“That’s it too! You always blame yourself.” Her head droops a little, eyes hidden. “I don’t want you to do that anymore.”

“Let’s make a deal.”

Her eyes finally meet his. Maybe he’s kidding himself, but the brown is brighter.

“If I promise to stop being a masochistic prick and to start getting back before twelve...”

Tifa opens her mouth to protest, but he presses a finger to her lips and she grinds to a halt, cheeks flooding with red. His heart thuds a little, and he wonders where on earth he got the courage to do that.

 “You have to promise to stop waiting up for me and to take it a little easier.”

He takes his hand away and she stares at him.

“How did you know?”

 “It was...obvious?” he shrugs. “Please, Tifa. Promises to you are the only ones I can keep.”

“Okay,” she says hesitantly. “Deal.”

“Good,” he says, and carefully quashes the urge to either ruffle her hair or hug her. “Go to bed. I’ll be up soon.”

She slides off the stool and looks at him again, eyes restored to claret. She presses her fingers to his briefly and darts upstairs.

Cloud locks the temporary sensation of rough skin and warmth away and ascends the stairs noiselessly, restraining himself from checking if she’s asleep yet.

He sleeps all the way through the night.

He returns at eight the next night. Tifa doesn’t quite meet his eyes, but he smiles anyways.


End file.
